Aw, Lucky, No
by incogniteaux
Summary: Kate goes west with Lucky after a "come to Jesus" moment with Clint. Warnings for coarse language.


Universe: Fraction comic book Clint

Relationships: Clint Barton x Kate Bishop (platonic), Clint Barton x Lucky, Clint Barton x Barney Barton

Warnings: language

A/N: All dialogue, which is in bold, is from the Fraction comic.

* * *

"**I gotta get out of here for little while**," she said softly.

He mumbled something under his breath in response, continuing to stare into his Alpha-Bits. He swears he sees the word "DOOMED" floating in the milk, his breakfast (dinner? He's not really aware of what time it is) appearing to foretell his future. Looks about right.

"**I can't stick around and watch you do this to yourself anymore.**"

She is getting increasingly annoyed and agitated with him, preaching at him the importance of sticking together during times of trouble. Her sympathetic demeanor she possessed just moments ago, gone. He is just trying to tune her out. He knows she means well, but he _wants_ to sulk. He _wants_ despondency. He wants to _wallow_. It's what he does. He retreats; he closes himself off for a bit, and he eventually emerges. But he knows the current situation won't afford him that kind of time.

"**Just stop talking.**" It's an abrupt command, and he knows it comes as harsh. But he just _can't_ with her militant pep talk right now. His headspace isn't ready to let any optimism in. He feels hopeless, lost, and _scared_. So many people could end up hurt or _killed_ because of him.

She begins to pack up belongings, far too many belongings as far as he's concerned, and he voices his thoughts. She maintains that all of it is hers, and he's too exhausted to argue with her. Let her take whatever shit she wants. If he doesn't have the equipment, then he doesn't have to be Hawkeye. He doesn't have to take that responsibility upon his shoulders. She is far more gung ho anyway, so have at it, Kate.

"**I can't watch you completely lose it anymore, Clint.**" She is in his face now, leaning over the kitchen island, voice a quiet intensity, and he has to lean back away from her. She rants about how he chose to make this apartment building, however slovenly it is, his home, and his fellow tenants, however ragtag they may be, his family. She points out that he can't just bail on everything when it gets tough. He can't take the emotion in her voice, the blaze in her blue eyes, and he definitely can't take the truth of her words. So he plays with his cereal spoon instead. He knows his lack of reaction only serves to incense her more.

"**So, what? Back to Midtown? Back to Daddy's?**" The gruff words are out before he really knows what he's saying. He shoves a spoonful of cereal into his mouth to stop anything else from coming out. He knows he's hurt her, but dammit, he hurts too. What's that saying? "Misery loves company?"

She glares up at him from where she was adjusting her quiver. "**Go to hell.**" Her words are said as if she is a scorpion striking its quarry - quick and lancing. He's wounded, but he feels it's warranted. She's trusted him with her feelings and issues regarding her father, and he just flung it in her face.

After an argument over whose quiver it actually is (wherein she smugly points to her initials embroidered in the leather), he lamely tells her he put some of _his_ remote explosive arrows in there. He warns her to be careful and to not try to take them aboard a plane. He's sure TSA would give her a hassle, Hawkeye or not. And if her luck is anything like his, she'll always be "randomly" selected for further screening.

"**But seriously, where are you gonna go?**" He asks fighting to keep the concern out of his voice. She is a sarcastic, grating petite _dagger_ in his ass much of the time, but a definite platonic love for her has sprung up, and he's cultivated it over the time they've known each other. He knows worry for her is going to be mounted on his growing plate of anxieties. He tries to brush away the unsettling feeling in his belly with a smartass quip after she tells him she is thinking of LA.

"**Because the West Coast totally needs a Hawkeye.**"

This is the part where he expects her to just walk out on him and never look back. He feels this would be good for her because he's been warned anybody associated with him, anybody close to him, is in danger. Fair game as a target. But what she does next absolutely blindsides him, and he feels the air leave his lungs.

"**C'mon, Lucky.**"

And the four-legged little shit actually follows her! Lucky's paws click on the hardwood floor in a quick cantor to keep up with Kate's purposeful stride. After gathering his senses, he leaps up from the kitchen barstool with an exclamation of vehement protest and pursues them both into the hallway.

"**You can't just take my dog!**"

Fuck.

He watches them enter the elevator, and the doors shut. A piece of her feels beyond cruel for taking the dog, but Lucky is a sensitive and smart canine, well aware of his humans' moods and emotions. She doesn't want Lucky taking on the depression of his owner. The dog is already slightly more sluggish than he's been as Clint hasn't been walking him as often as he used to. And perhaps this rock bottom loneliness will spark the man to action.

His older brother, Barney, zipping up his pants, descends into the living room from where he was taking a dump in the bathroom upstairs. He could hear the whole exchange from his seat on the toilet.

"**She took my dog, man**," Clint tells his brother, his face fallen. He at least thought Lucky would remain loyal to him. Did the phrase "man's best friend" mean nothing to that mutt? But he had to be honest with himself; that love should be reciprocal, and he hadn't been much of a best friend to Lucky as of late. Sure, he always made sure the dog was fed, but the walks had become shorter and less frequent. He didn't toss the squeak toys or play tug-o-war with Lucky as much either.

"**Dunno. Looks like the dog left, t'me.**"

Fuck. Again.

He'd even succeed in pushing Lucky away. If ever there was a sign for Clint Barton to (sort of) get his shit together, it was this.


End file.
